Free Wolfsbane by William W. Johnstone

skinnin’ knife. Her home was a potpourri of herbs and plants and flowers—some to do good, some to do bad.
    â€œInformation, Annie.”
    â€œInformation, I ain got. Sell you a gris-gris, maybe. It do you rat, boy.”
    Sheriff Vallot climbed the ladder to her porch. “Don’t want no gris-gris, Annie.”
    â€œYou got troubles wit your lady, boy? I fix you someting make you fine to her.”
    Sheriff Vallot stood impassively on the porch and waited until she was through attempting to peddle him any of her wares.
    â€œHo-kay, Edan, cain’t sale you nuttin, so what you want?”
    â€œI want to know everything you can tell me about Claude Bauterre.”
    She sat down in a rattan chair and allowed shock to pass over her face. “Coowee, Edan! You don believe in wastin’ no time, do you? Where you hear ’bout dat devil man?”
    â€œDevil man, Annie?”
    â€œRoo garou, den.”
    â€œI’m . . . not familiar with that, Annie.”
    â€œAh—dat’s rat. You study the propre French at the big university, din you? Ho-kay. Loup-garou. ”
    Sheriff Vallot raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Werewolf, Annie? Are you saying Claude Bauterre was a werewolf?”
    â€œNon! I’m sayin’ Claude Bauterre is a roo-garou. One of dem kind you cain’t kill.”
    The sheriff rose to pace the small porch overhanging the bayou. “What you are saying is . . . what you want me to believe is: the supposed . . . ah . . . presumed deceased was not actually slain that night?”
    â€œHah!?”
    Edan sighed. Patience, he told himself. Knock off the police academy wordage. Just be grateful she’s even talking to you. Five years ago she almost blew a game warden clean out of his boat for just saying good morning to her. The sheriff sat down.
    â€œHow come you never marry, Edan?” Annie looked him up and down, a twinkle in her eyes. “Someting wrong wit you?”
    â€œNo, Annie—nothing is wrong with me.”
    â€œYeah, I heard ’bout your lady-friend from up nort. Cain’t truss dem norten women, Edan.”
    Edan didn’t want to talk about his old girlfriend, but he felt obliged to defend her. “Annie, she was from Shreveport!”
    â€œDat’s nort, ain’t it?”
    He couldn’t argue that.
    â€œYou seen ma Stella lately, Edan? Now, dat’s a woman!”
    He couldn’t argue that, either.
    â€œShe’s beautiful, Annie. I sure agree with you on that. Now, can we get back to Claude Bauterre?”
    â€œWhy you want to talk ’bout dat man for? Ain’t he done caused you nuff troubles?”
    â€œWhat do you mean, Annie?”
    â€œAin’t all dem Bauterres back at the big house? Ain’t that roo-garou’s grave been bust into? Or,” she smiled, “bust out of? Ain’t his black ashes gone? Ain’t dey been reports of wolfmen seen ’round the parish?”
    â€œAnnie?” Edan leaned forward. “Those so-called sightings of monsters have not been released from my office. I don’t want a bunch of out-of-town reporters crawling around here. We’re sitting on those rumors. And how did you know Bauterre’s crypt was smashed? You haven’t left this swamp in weeks.”
    â€œI know tings you’ll never know, Edan. In ways you don understand. Old ways; all dyin’ out, now. But some folks still believe in the cauchemar. I one. He come to me in the night and whisper in ma ear. Tell me tings. I listen.”
    Edan sighed and leaned back in his chair. He shook his head. The cauchemar: a night-riding spirit. The bugger-man. “What does the cauchemar tell you, Annie?”
    â€œDeath come to Ducros Parish. Allratty come, you jist don know it.”
    â€œWhen do more deaths come, Annie?”
    â€œSoon.”
    â€œWhat kind of death, Annie? Natural death? You don’t need a spirit to tell you that.”
    â€œSe